


Path to Redemption

by kronette



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e12 Fragments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone had their little secrets, and anyone who had worked at Torchwood had to keep some comparatively big ones. Ianto had been sure that Tosh, Owen and Gwen had more than their share of both kinds. Jack – heroic, damnable Jack – had secrets that were dangerous. For six months, Ianto’s secret had remained hidden in the depths of Torchwood Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Path to Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> Story based off of Torchwood's second series episode "Fragments". This was started and (nearly) finished February 2009. I polished it up and here it is, the story of Ianto and Jack with an entirely different background for Ianto.

Everyone had their little secrets, and anyone who had worked at Torchwood had to keep some comparatively big ones. Ianto had been sure that Tosh, Owen and Gwen had more than their share of both kinds.

Jack – heroic, damnable Jack – had secrets that were dangerous. His secrets had been of the future; of where the human race would be in five thousand years – ten thousand years – and beyond. Secrets of alien technology and far-flung worlds spanning the universe. Jack’s secrets had been kept out of necessity, not out of fear.

For six months, Ianto’s secret had remained hidden in the depths of Torchwood Three. To look at him, you’d have seen an unassuming, handsome young man, impeccably dressed and polite to a fault. You’d never have guessed that he lied with every breath he took. You’d never have guessed that beneath the demure smile lurked a heart torn asunder by betrayal and fear.

That had been the point of secrets – to keep them hidden away to protect yourself. For Ianto, his secret had been flesh and blood. Not an abstraction or addiction, but a living, breathing woman he had been desperate to save. A sense of failure had overwhelmed him every time he had checked Lisa’s pulse, fluids or pain meds. She had existed between human and monster, and he would have done anything – anything – to save her.

It had been a miracle he’d come out of Canary Wharf with so little injury. It had become a curse to walk, to stand, to talk, to have independent movement when Lisa couldn’t even breathe on her own.

Only Torchwood could have saved the woman he loved, and only Torchwood Three had the access and seclusion he had needed. He had become Captain Jack Harkness’ stalker, the leader of Torchwood Three, the Institute that had created the horror of the Cybermen and the only one who could make it right. He had done what was necessary; had pretended to be who he thought that Jack had needed him to be.

Meeting Jack Harkness face to face had brought the ugly truth home: it didn’t matter _who_ he was; Jack had no use for him. Ianto’s sly game of ‘I know who you are and what you do’ on their first meeting had gained him nothing. The second meeting had fared no better, where only his coffee – Lisa’s coffee – had made an impression.

He had been left with no other options. He had stared at the back of his closet most of that morning, working up the courage to reach in and retrieve what he’d sworn he would never put on again. You’d have thought it was a Weevil or some other horrible creature, but it had been clothing. Specifically, a suit.

The last suit he’d worn had Lisa’s blood soaked through. The last suit he’d worn had been the day the Cybermen and Daleks had invaded and had declared war on each other, Torchwood and the human race. He’d burned that suit, his face and hands still streaked with blood, ash, gray matter, dirt, charred metal and burnt plastic.

He had dry-heaved twice into the toilet before he’d been able to put on the dress pants and shirt. It had taken another hour and another sickening lurch in the toilet before he had been able to knot the tie and slip on the jacket. He had dressed turned away from the mirror, too much a coward to see what he had become.

His last encounter with Jack Harkness had stolen the breath from him. He had been dogged, resolute, determined and stubborn, yet Jack had been equally so. What Jack hadn’t know was that Ianto had the ultimate Ace up his sleeve.

Ianto had little trouble locating the pterodactyl he’d coaxed to trust him. Luring it to a large warehouse had proven just as easy. He’d even intercepted Torchwood’s comm signal and had learned that Jack had been heading his way. He had braced himself and stepped into the glare of the SUV’s headlights; had trusted that Jack hadn’t wanted to kill anyone by accident.

Jack’s murderous glare and heated words had Ianto second-guessing that an ‘unfortunate accident’ would happen to him. As Jack had moved closer, Ianto’s heartbeat had sped up and his breathing had deepened. A tantalizing scent had surrounded him; had reached deep inside to dredge up emotions he had forcibly pushed away in order to be strong for Lisa.

Before he had drowned in it, the scent had dissipated as Jack had turned back to the SUV and had given him a last warning. The shock that Ianto was about to fail a third time had him blurting out, “So you won’t help with the pterodactyl, then?”

So caught up in the chase, the thrill of excitement, the _emotion_ that had bubbled up from inside, Ianto had missed one very important trait about Jack Harkness. The tingle that had grown exponentially as he and Jack had strived to tranquilize the prehistoric creature had transformed into an aroused, erotic scent. Lush with promise and taste and excitement and raw, sexual power. It had been a siren song to all who had come too close, too late to realize they’d been caught in its web and its owner.

Ianto’s laughter had quickly died as those feelings had crashed through him. He had stared down into Jack’s deep blue eyes; had felt the press of Jack’s hard body beneath him as laughter still shook the other man. Ianto had struggled to get his breathing and body under control, but feared he’d have an easier time pulling the moon and stars from the sky.

The slightest shift of angled hips had ensured a race of pleasure up Ianto’s spine and had snapped Jack’s intense focus onto him. Ianto’s body had moved with his panted breath, a gentle rocking motion that had left no doubt how Ianto had been affected by Jack. That scent had wrapped around him again, warm and sparking with desire, and Ianto had longed to dip his head and taste those parted lips.

Before his eyes could close and before he had leaned down, a voice inside had screamed at him about how he was betraying Lisa, how he was using his sexuality to gain a foothold into Torchwood, how he was using the man beneath him for his own purpose without regard for Jack’s feelings.

With trembling arms, he had pushed himself up and off Jack quickly, frantic to get as far from the man and his 51 st century hormones. He hadn’t thought of Lisa. Hadn’t remembered why he’d been stalking Jack Harkness for two weeks. Hadn’t cared that the world existed beyond the two of them.

Jack’s offer of the job had only made him curl in on himself, ashamed at how far he’d gone in his desperation. Ashamed further to admit that it hadn’t been desperation that he had felt; it had been arousal. He had been no better than a whore off the street, giving what he could for what was offered.

As he had fought back tears of shame and disgrace, unknowingly, Jack had twisted his fingers around Ianto’s heart with his parting words, “By the way; nice suit.”

Ianto had struggled to keep his emotions under control, but he could do nothing about the facts.

Jack had finally noticed him.

He finally had the means to help Lisa.

All it had taken was for Ianto to shed his pride and self-respect; to lower himself to base instincts; to toss aside his morals and sense of self-worth; to manipulate an untrusting man into trusting him and then use him for his own purpose.

Ianto had kept his arms clasped tightly around his torso as he had walked, unseeing, back to his flat. He had felt splintered and raw; emotions still running wild beneath his skin. If Jack had liked his suit, then Ianto had to oblige him to keep Jack from getting suspicious. As he had reached the threshold of his flat, he had choked out a sob and resigned to whore himself to whatever fate Jack had planned for him. Guilt had torn at his insides, had made him bleed and twist in anguish, as much a prisoner as Lisa.

=-=-=-=-=

For six months, Ianto’s secret had remained hidden in the depths of Torchwood Three.

He had wanted to save Lisa by obligation borne of love and guilt. He had loved her, so very much, only six months ago. He’d thought that love and fierce resolve could do anything, even revert her back to fully human from a partial Cyber-conversion.

Six months ago, he had matched wits with Jack and they had bantered, flirted and teased. Unbidden and unwanted, Ianto had found himself intrigued with Jack enough that he had moments when he’d forgotten Lisa; forgotten that she’d been in agony just below his feet. The guilt had eaten at him then, so much worse that he’d second-guessed himself, afraid that a part of him hadn’t wanted her cured.

If she had died, the smothering weight would have been lifted from his shoulders and he‘d have breathed deeply once again. If she had died, his guilt would have overwhelmed him and he would have begged for Retcon. If she had lived, he’d have had to find a way to love her again with his whole being. If she had lived, he’d have had to betray his growing feelings toward Jack.

Fate had given him the answer in the cruelest way possible: himself or Lisa. Torchwood and Jack, or the Cyberman. It hadn’t been Lisa for the longest time, and he’d fought against that realization with every fiber of his being. He’d tried, honest, he’d tried, but he couldn’t kill her, not even when it had been just her memories in another body.

Jack – damnable, heroic Jack – had eliminated the threat. Had destroyed the Cyberman. Had killed his – no. Jack hadn’t killed Lisa, because she’d died at Canary Wharf. That hadn’t stopped him mourning or regretting all that he’d done to try to save her.

Ianto had stayed knelt on the floor, blood soaked through his pants as he had lifted Lisa’s head onto his lap. She hadn’t been his beautiful Lisa in so long, it felt as though he were mourning a long-dead ghost.

He had ignored the tug on his arm, but couldn’t block out Jack’s murmured, “You know it wouldn’t have stopped until it had destroyed the planet.”

He’d sucked in a choked breath and hissed, “Not yet, Jack.”

At some point, Jack had taken him home and cleaned him up. Jack had placed him at one end of the couch and settled next to him. Ianto had stared at nothing from the walk to the SUV through the walk into his flat. He had willed himself numb.

After some time, small tremors had started throughout his body and he had curled in on himself to keep from flying apart. His teeth had chattered and he had shivered; so cold. Why had he been cold when Lisa had been the one to die? He’d gotten chills whenever he’d kissed her gently, or had woken up beside her in the conversion unit chilled to the bone. He’d only felt coldness for so long – unforgiving metal and cool, dying skin – that the first touch of warmth had him gasping.

Jack’s arm had wrapped around his shoulders and had pulled him in, partially tucked under the greatcoat.

“No,” he had protested as he had struggled weakly, not ready to forgive himself.

Jack’s other arm had blocked his attempt to push away, and Ianto had found himself cocooned in Jack’s arms, that damnable scent impossible to ignore. Instead of the arousal he had expected and loathed, soothing warmth had spread through him until it had ended the tremors.

He had lain quietly, too emotionally spent to do more than rest his full weight on Jack. The warmth had been such a contrast that he feared it had shocked his system. The blue of Jack’s coat had swirled and danced as his cheek had pressed deeper into the material.

One burden had been lifted, though Ianto wished things had ended differently. And as much as he had wanted to sleep and forget, his mind and heart wouldn’t let him rest. Jack apparently had forgiven his betrayal, and Ianto didn’t want to hurt him again.

He had other things – other secrets – to tell Jack. The last of Ianto Jones’ secrets, for he hadn’t wanted anything to come between them again. He had known Jack had his own secrets - 51st century pheromones hadn’t been something to bring up in regular conversation – but this had been about his conscience, not Jack’s.

He had tilted his head back to stare up at Jack, as open and honest as he could under the circumstances. “I want to tell you things, Jack, and I don’t want you to interrupt,” he had begun quietly and had waited for Jack’s nod. “I suspect my lying to you has hurt you more than you’ll admit, and I won’t be surprised if I’m given Retcon tonight.” He had waited for an interruption, but Jack’s expression didn’t flicker. He had lain his head back down on Jack’s shoulder, unsure if he had the strength to keep it upright.

“I’m not a trustworthy person, but I used to be. Sort of. Lisa,” he had swallowed loudly, “Made me a better person. She made me _want_ to be a better person.” He had felt tears fill his eyes and had taken a breath to calm himself. “She was the first person I allowed close to me after what Torchwood had done to me.” He had felt and heard the quick intake of air from Jack, and had pressed his hand into Jack’s chest until he had felt the resistance of ribs and muscle; felt the strong heartbeat beneath.

“I met the Doctor, once,” he had murmured as he had watched his hand rub circles over Jack’s coat. He’d thought that Jack had prior contact with the Doctor and had understood the emphasis he’d placed on the title/name. His hand hadn’t missed that quick inhalation, either. “It was in the aftermath of Canary Wharf. I wouldn’t have been at Torchwood Tower that day if I’d had a choice. It was my day to check in and Lisa had been instructed to report directly to Yvonne, as she’d neglected to file her report on me for the last week. We had just entered the Archives when the first blast struck.”

He had taken a deep breath to steady himself before launching into his past. “I know you’re not from the 21 st century,” he had murmured as he had continued to watch his hand rub circles over Jack’s coat. “I know, because I’m not, either.”

=-=-=-=-=

The Rift indiscriminately tossed every sort of thing through time and space. Objects, mostly, but sometimes it caught hapless people and sent them on an unwelcome journey. In the year 2182, it snatched a seventeen year-old Welsh lad out of his time and deposited him in 1999, just before Christmas.

He thrashed on the ground, sight and sound and touch overwhelming his senses. Colors burned his skin. Sound pierced his eyes. Touching signaled indescribable pain lancing through his ears. Broken sounds emerged as he strained for breath, his body threatening to reject even that basic need.

He choked on the chilled air in his tight chest, nauseated as his vision whirled behind his eyes. He was dragged to his feet and taken to warmth that threatened to burn him, but he didn’t care. It was warm and he felt as though his blood had turned to ice.

He learned quickly that he’d been located by a team from Torchwood One and was informed that he would be a _guest_ of theirs indefinitely. It wasn’t as though he had a choice; they knew what had happened to him and where he’d come from. Since he had no way to get back to his own time, his knowledge of the future ensured his permanent residence at Torchwood. Whether it was as employee or prisoner depended only on his ability to further Torchwood’s agenda, not on his cooperation.

He hadn’t learned until much later – until Rolm Flat – how lucky he’d been. His mind could have been splintered in the Rift, or much worse.

Weeks later, his existence was merely that: existence. The ‘room’ they provided him had stark white walls, a basic bed, a toilet, a conspicuous camera and quite literally nothing else. After only a few hours with the mind-numbing blankness, he was muttering to himself just to hear sound. He started to recall films, shows and books, then every fact he’d ever learned, in the fight to preserve his sanity. Hours or days later – he couldn’t tell in the windowless room with the ever-present light – the interrogation began.

He began to long for the sameness of the quiet as now his days were filled with question after question after question about the future, intermixed with not-so-veiled threats if he refused to cooperate.

Their veneer of civility sickened him, but he had no choice. He knew no one; he couldn’t even see outside, let alone know what day, week or month it was; they controlled what he ate, when he ate, or if he ate. He gave them credible-sounding answers, but he honestly couldn’t remember if they were truth or fiction. He’d tell them anything, if only they’d leave him be. He hadn’t asked for this, yet no one cared. He was human, yet they ignored even the most basic of human needs – contact. The only touch he felt was his own, and he was about to crawl out of his own skin.

He could barely recall his psychological classes from secondary school, but he could tell he was losing his grasp on reality.

Soon after the endless interrogation, he was escorted out of his ‘room’. The corridor walls were white, but doors varied the unending stretch. The distant murmur of voices screamed in his ears and he clamped his hands over them quickly, whimpering. Ignoring his distress, he was directed into a room and pushed into a chair, belatedly registering other people in the room.

To his disbelief, he was presented with a 21st century background, complete with childhood history and schooling, yet no living family to draw suspicion. He wasn’t fooled by their _generosity_ of allowing him outside the Tower, as his background included a girlfriend – assigned by Torchwood, of course.

Despite the appearance of an amiable woman, Lisa Hallet’s mission was to report on his every word and deed. They’d been given keys to a flat not a block from the Tower, and he’d no doubt surveillance cameras were set on their entryway. The designation might change, but a prisoner was still a prisoner, no matter if the bars were invisible.

He had no peace from Lisa’s presence, as her duty was to accompany him everywhere, in case he dared speak of being from the future or of what the Tower really did. Her presence was stifling – despite or because of – her attempts at pleasant conversation. He believed her a mindless drone who towed the company line, and he had no desire to interact with her beyond what was necessary. He closed himself in his room whenever he was in the flat, resigned to much of the same for the rest of his life. Freedom all around him and he with an invisible noose around his neck.

He almost wished to be back in the Tower, where living normally didn’t torment him everywhere he looked. At least there, he understood his role and could resign himself to it. Out here, with the chilled London air burning his cheeks, the wistful draw of home was almost too much to bear.

Finding happiness in such a place was beyond unexpected; he declared it impossible around such narrow-minded people.

Falling in love with Lisa was happenstance, merely the side effect of a left turn instead of a right, or a hesitation on a decision. He couldn’t remember anymore; his early memories of how their relationship changed from parolee/guard to more had burned at Canary Wharf.

With the destruction of Torchwood One, choices once denied him were his to make again. Would he wait for the other Torchwood branches to descend upon Canary Wharf, thereby continuing his servitude? Would he change the list of the dead to include him and Lisa, the only shining spot in his world of darkness and monotony? Would he stay and work Torchwood from the inside, making it better for him and less a risk for the future? Too many times, he had witnessed the near-destruction of his future – humanity’s future – and his heart didn’t stop racing once the crisis was past.

In the end, the choice was made without his consent.

=-=-=-=-=

Ianto’s voice drifted to silence in his flat, the heartbeat beneath his hand racing just a bit faster than it had before Ianto had given up his last secret. “Have you noticed the strangeness of the Doctor’s eyes?” he had stated in an effort to calm his own racing heart; the demons of Canary Wharf had been too fresh today. “How they seem to hold the vastness of the universe itself in their depths?” The tense silence had lasted longer than Ianto had hoped for, but finally Jack let out the breath he’d been holding.

“You know he can see everything – everything that was, is and ever will be,” Jack murmured quietly, rubbing his thumb along Ianto’s exposed elbow. “That’s how he sees us; how he sees Time. ‘Time Lord’ isn’t just a title, it’s who he is.”

“You’ve traveled with him, haven’t you?” Ianto asked, pitching his voice low. “You’ve been inside that ship-thing of his.”

Ianto felt the movement of Jack’s chuckle against his palm. “Ah, the TARDIS. She’s a lovely girl with a crush on me.”

Ianto eyed Jack suspiciously. “A _ship_ has a crush on you?”

“She’s not just a ship!” Jack protested as his eyes had taken on a faraway look. “She’s partially sentient and in tune with the universe. She has a bit of telepathic ability, so she lets you know who she likes and what she likes.”

A horrifying thought just occurred to Ianto, and he was almost too afraid to voice it. “ _Please_ tell me you haven’t had sex with a sentient ship. The _Doctor’s_ ship?”

For one terrible moment, Ianto had thought it true, then Jack burst into laughter. “No, Ianto, I haven’t had sex with the Doctor’s ship. I like all my appendages just where they are, thank you.” He sobered quickly, and Ianto wondered what changed his mood. He hadn’t long to wait.

“The Doctor threatened me once for trying to get the TARDIS to play favorites. Seemed she had a fondness for Rose and the Doctor, and didn’t want me getting in their way.” Ianto watched the sadness tug at Jack’s mouth. “Even I could see that Rose was wild for him, and in his own way, the Doctor adored her, too. I also figured out the Doctor would never – he wouldn’t give up our companionship for anything else.” Jack’s mouth curled into a lascivious smile that had Ianto rolling his eyes. “It wasn’t from lack of trying, either.”

Ianto smacked him with the heel of his hand. “You’re incorrigible, Jack.”

As Jack mock-nursed his wound, Ianto felt the air shift between them. The calm, soothing warmth that had gotten him through the last few hours had changed to the familiar scent and thrum of Jack’s pheromones.

Nervousness and desire coiled deep in Ianto, and he watched his hands stroke over Jack’s shoulders, the rasp of the wool and the cool of the brass a sharp contrast. “Jack,” he whispered with a tremble to his voice. “Jack, I want this. I’ve wanted this a long time.”

He shuddered as Jack’s palm slid across his hip to mould his hand to the curve of Ianto’s ass. “I know you have, Ianto, just as I know you’re not ready now. I’m not ready yet, either, but you should know this.”

He gasped as Jack abruptly tugged him forward. He had to quickly stretch out his leg to catch his knee on the cushion for balance, and found himself straddling Jack’s thighs. Just like after they had caught Myfanwy, their breathing was deep and their heartbeats were fast. Ianto raised up a bit on his knees so he was looking down slightly at Jack, whose eyes had darkened with desire.

He felt the flex of Jack’s fingers on his ass and stifled the moan as best he could, but the spark that lit Jack’s eyes told him that it had been heard. His own fingers twitched at the exposed skin of Jack’s neck, and he brushed fingertips against the fine hair at Jack’s hairline and up towards his ears. Ianto heard the rushing of blood in his ears and his veins as he leaned forward and trailed the tip of his tongue along Jack’s lower lip.

Hands gripped his ass tight and Ianto growled before he involuntarily thrust forward against Jack. “Stop now and leave, Jack or follow through,” he panted, his hips now rolling languidly in counterpoint to Jack’s.

Jack’s pheromones ratcheted normal response to a new level, at least for Ianto, and he dug his nails into Jack’s collar and dropped his forehead to Jack’s. “I don’t think – I can’t stop, Jack. Please tell me you’re okay with this. Please,” he begged quietly, even as he felt Jack shift beneath him to better settle Ianto’s weight.

He groaned as he felt Jack’s head slip down, then yelped and clenched his fists as Jack’s teeth worried at his neck. A tug on his earlobe had his full attention.

“Do you know we’ve had 6 months?” Jack punctuated his remark with a nip to Ianto’s ear that caused him to shudder. “Twenty-eight weeks?” Another nip had him squirming in Jack’s lap and shoving the coat and braces off Jack’s shoulders. “One hundred ninety-six days?” Whatever Jack was counting down, Ianto had focused his attention on ridding Jack of the remainder of his two shirts. “Four thousand seven hundred and four hours…of foreplay.”

Their bodies stopped moving as their eyes locked, wonder and raw hunger drawing them to their first proper kiss, desperate and needy and eager. Flavour burst on Ianto’s tongue and he deepened the kiss to better memorize it. Something unique to Jack, of Jack, and it had Ianto clamoring for more. His knees gripped Jack’s waist tight as he angled them down, sliding along the back of the couch until Jack was more or less supine. Unwilling to release Jack’s mouth, he located the hem of Jack’s t-shirt by touch and shoved it upwards. He felt the tug of his own t-shirt underneath his arms and quickly grasped the hem, yanked it over his head and threw it to the floor. He spared a glance to Jack’s face and saw the surprise and approval in the blink before his hands spread over Jack’s now bare chest and his head bent to explore with lips, teeth and tongue.

He shuddered as he felt Jack’s neatly trimmed nails raking up and down his back, but his entire body jerked in shameless, blatant entreaty as those same nails dug into the creases where his thighs met his ass.

“Sensitive there?” Jack’s smug voice whispered in his ear

He heard an inhuman sound in response – startled realization that it had come from him. “Didn’t know,” he gasped, amazement thick in his accent. “Need more,” he demanded, unheedful of his pleading undertone.

“Tell me what you want, Ianto.” Jack’s butter-soft voice rippled through him in gentle waves, bringing the sting of tears to his tightly closed eyes.

His head jerked sideways and back once in the negative. It was too much; it was too fast; it was…

Jack stressed his name, this time with quiet authority. “Ianto, look at me.”

He shook his head again, unable to explain or describe what he was feeling. It was new, terrifying, electrifying, all-encompassing. Too much –

Jack’s fingers tilted his head up and he dared to open his eyes, finding and locking on Jack’s helplessly.

Within seconds, fingertips stroked along his jaw in a soothing gesture. “You haven’t been with a man before,” Jack stated quietly but confidently.

“Doesn’t matter,” he huffed impatiently, embarrassment and leaking cock striving for the most blood flow.

The gentle grip tightened on his jaw, gaining his full attention. “In the grand scheme of things, no, it doesn’t matter. But when you’re with me, it matters to me because it’s _you_ ,” Jack continued softly. “Do you know what you want?”   


“You,” he said plaintively, then snarled at Jack’s patient smile. His snarl transformed into a shocked gasp of pleasure as Jack’s hand cupped him through his boxers.  


“Yeah, I got that part, big boy. What I need to know is if you know what our options are and what you’re comfortable doing.”  


His mind couldn’t focus on anything other than Jack’s too-light touch on his neglected, aching cock. “Just need more,” he rasped as hips started moving in short thrusts. When it didn’t look like Jack was getting it, Ianto grasped Jack’s hand and forced it closed around his cock. “Move,” he growled impatiently.

While he’d been busy with Jack’s right hand, the remaining one, the one with the thick leather band, had dragged one of the edges down his side toward the top of his ass. “Ohfuck,” he breathed and rubbed back against the rough material. Jack angled his wrist so the edge caught as Ianto rolled his hips, scraping the tender skin. “Om, fuck,” he repeated, frustration quickly overtaking his lust. When he moved backwards, Jack’s grip lessened on his cock. When he pushed into Jack’s fist, he lost contact with the leather.

“Ianto,” whispered past his ear. “Settle yourself on top of me.” A gentle pull on his cock guided him down onto Jack’s stomach.

A gasp of breath escaped as he caught sight of Jack’s cock for the first time. “Shit,” he murmured before his fingers traced along the underside, up and around the head, then back down to the curled hairs at the base. Not much different than his own, except for the size. And what a difference _that_ was.

He felt a quiver race through Jack and looked up, surprised to see his eyes closed and sweat on his forehead. “Jack?”

“You need to get settled _now_ ,” Jack growled as he grasped Ianto’s hips and shifted him until they both let out startled moans.

He felt Jack’s cock twitch against his own and his stomach fluttered in response. The breath caught in his throat as that set off a chain reaction, Jack’s hips rising to meet his, and him shifting down to rub against the base of Jack’s cock. It was wondrous; it was glorious friction and contact and slick skin and sweat –  


It wasn’t enough. Exasperation built quickly as he thrust harder, then twisted his hips in circles, trying to find the right combination to get him off. He could hear the frustrated sobs catching in his throat, then Jack’s mouth had swallowed them down. He chased the slick, wet tongue from his mouth to Jack’s, scraping along teeth and bumping noses. His free hand roamed Jack’s chest, his nails dragged against skin on a quest for –  


He located one of the hard nubs and scratched at it.  


Jack arched beneath him and made the most breathless moan he’d ever heard, which sent a jolt of need straight through his cock, which started yet another round of escalating pleasure.  


Jack was still sideways against the back of the couch, but with a move Ianto could never hope to duplicate, Jack was nearly flat on his back with Ianto between his legs.  


Ianto had no complaints about the move, as his ass was now grasped firmly in both of Jack’s hands. He dove up into Jack’s mouth while his fingers unerringly found the reddened nipples and twisted them hard.  


His reward was Jack’s fingers digging into _that_ spot again, holding him firmly to rub cock against cock, and – ohfuckfuckfuck – deliberately dig the leather into his skin. He felt every nerve-ending spark with life; the familiar rush from toes and head to that one defining moment that would white out all his memories, fears and dreams in a high like no other.  


He moaned around Jack’s tongue; nails digging into Jack’s sides as he felt the heat burst through him, succumbing to the abyss with a heartfelt cry.  


=-=-=-=  


When he next became aware, he felt a hand splayed across the outside of his thigh and hip, moving in a gentle caress. A slight rasp and soft bursts of warmth trailed over his collarbone, into the hollow of his throat to whisper-tease to the other side. He arched his back, pushing himself closer to that warmth as his hands grasped the back of Jack’s head and pulled him down for a deep, probing kiss.  


Even after that mind-blowing kiss, he felt his eyes slipping closed and the heavy lids were getting harder to force open. “I need sleep, Jack,” he said, startled at the raw sound of his own voice.  


Jack actually appeared to force back a yawn. “It’s incredible what a bout of really amazing sex will do for you,” he replied, levering himself off Ianto and holding out his hand.  


Ianto’s eyelids found themselves wide open as he stared again at Jack’s body, muscled calves and thighs, and _no_ , he hadn’t mistaken _that_ in size or form; an odd thrill at seeing Jack’s stomach and chest covered with angry red lines, to the tired grin and sultry look directed at him. “Enough playtime for now, Ianto. We both need rest.”

Shaking himself from the tantalizing sight, he held up his hand and clasped Jack’s as he was maneuvered off the couch. As they stood a foot apart, one thought chased itself round his mind: Jack was going to leave. He certainly had no reason to stay, unless it was to Retcon him in the morning. He couldn’t imagine Jack doing that to him, especially now, so he met Jack’s gaze steadily. “It’s too late for you to drive back to the Hub. You may as well stay here for the night.”  


He shivered as Jack studied his naked form, then glared as Jack grinned openly at him. “I’m not one to have life-altering sex and then leave straight away, Ianto.” His grin sobered to a thin line. “We will talk in the morning about what happened at the Hub, but for tonight, let’s just get some rest. We could both use it.”

With the unsettling thought of _life-altering sex_ , Ianto led the way to his bedroom. Not bothering with the lights, he made his way to the bed. A flush crept up his neck as he slipped under the covers, unused to sleeping in the nude. The other side dipped with Jack’s weight, and his fist thumped Jack in the chest as he heard the throaty chuckle.

“Just because I’m sleeping starkers doesn’t mean you have to. Get into shorts or something; whatever you normally wear. I won’t be offended.”  


How the hell had Jack known he was flushed and uneasy? Had he become that transparent? Steadying himself, he asked, “Would you be offended if I asked you to wear some, too?” with an arched eyebrow.  


At that, Jack burst into full laughter. “Ahh, there’s my Ianto. Either lend me a pair of yours or I can get my shorts from the living room.”  


He stalked over to the armoire, selected two pair of boxer-briefs and tossed one at Jack. “Cheeky bastard,” he grumbled as he stepped into his clothes and returned to bed. Before he’d settled, he felt Jack curl up behind him and drape an arm over his waist. “Um, Jack? Do you need to me to find you a large, overstuffed teddy bear?”  


He closed his eyes at the warm breath across the back of his neck. “Nope, this’ll do just fine. I’m not angling for anything, Ianto. I just figured you could use some warm, human contact.”  


The remark stung, but only because it was accurate. He grasped Jack’s hand resting on his stomach and squeezed it tight, but remained silent. It was the last thing he knew before he dropped to sleep.  


=-=-=-=-=  


The deafening silence after the riotous battle was more a shock to his system than the attack had been. Death loomed in the quiet; anguished pain and heartbreaking loss thickened the air. He spared one glance to the half-converted, mangled bodies strewn about the normally pristine floors before making his way through. Something wasn’t right; something important. Something that needed fixing _now_ , though he didn’t know where the feeling came from or how he knew it was wrong; he just _did_.  


He stumbled around a corner and headed down a corridor, unsure where he was headed, only knowing that it was the right direction. Another turn up ahead and he spotted a lone figure coming toward him. Ianto’s step didn’t pause; he continued to move forward in this stranger’s direct path. He marveled at the incredible absence of blood on the man before him, noting the disheveled brown hair that disguised the down-turned face. Hands stuffed in the pant pockets marred the line of a once-crisp pinstripe suit.  


The brown fringe lifted as Ianto drew nearer and dark brown eyes locked onto his. Ianto gasped and nearly reeled back from the shattering _loss_ as if punched by it. Hitched breath strangled him as he was drawn into this man’s downward spiral of helplessness and misery.  


The ghosts. Lisa’s screams. Cybermen converting humanity. Daleks exterminating what remained. Fingertips slipping on unforgiving metal. Yvonne’s shortsightedness. Chaos. Staccato of gunfire. Screaming. Death. Smoke. Darkness. Always surrounded by death and darkness…  


Ianto buoyed himself up by sheer will, refusing death once again. He gaped in amazement and fear at the alien – for Ianto was certain now that the creature before him wasn’t human – while his chest heaved with greedy breaths. Not even in the 22nd century did humans have that kind of control over their emotions. This alien was out of time; out of place and was projecting such an empathetic screaming need for RoseRoseRose, not a flower but a girlahumangirlawomancompanionsomuch _more_ goneforever…  


“Doctor.” The word tumbled from his lips regarding the alien, knowing it wasn’t merely a title, but was _who_ ; _what_ he was. Such a simple word to contain such a cacophony of emotion. The Doctor merely looked through him – eyes deadened from too much loss in too long a lifetime – but more words forced themselves past his raspy throat. “It isn’t sealed fully; not yet. You can still reach Rose.”  


The deadness lifted and the laser-bright intensity of the Doctor’s eyes bore into his for eternity. Too quickly for Ianto to comprehend, the Doctor had him by the lapels. His startled gaze locked with the Doctor’s eyes as they flashed and swirled with something – otherworldly.  


“What do you know of her? _How_ can you know when it’s just happened?”  


Sensing the _griefragehelplessness_ about to unleash upon him, Ianto growled in defense, “I didn’t take her!” His outburst startled the Doctor long enough for him to shove his way free of the inhuman grip. He gathered his thready breath and answered as best he could. “I don’t know what happened, or how or why. I only know that something isn’t _right_.” Ianto squeezed his eyes shut for longer than a blink, his focus dancing in and out. “I had to tell _you_ that something isn’t right,” he amended, unsure how he knew.  


A bark of unpleasant laughter led into a scathing dressing-down. “You can’t possibly know anything about it. You’re just another stupid ape on this planet who messed about with things you couldn’t hope to comprehend for at least another thousand years and nearly ripped apart the fabric of the universe in the process!”  


“I know a lot more of what happened today than you might realize,” Ianto fired back, despite agreeing with the Doctor on some level. “I’ve been in that Rift; I know the damage it can do. I know the destruction that can happen if it’s not tended properly. This _place_ ,” he sneered, “Nearly fractured my timeline a dozen times over.”  


The Doctor’s eyes swirled again, a rage of lights spinning endlessly toward the irises. Ianto found himself mesmerized by the infinity in that gaze  


“When are you from?” the Doctor demanded in a clipped tone.  


Ianto didn’t need to be told the authority this man held was deserved. He sensed this being, this Doctor, had been the one to save Earth from its own destruction today. For that, if for nothing else, the Doctor had his gratitude.  


“Twenty-second century, sir. I was pulled through the Rift eight years ago. Eight years of watching them nearly destroy my future.” His thoughts flicked to Lisa, her screams as he dragged her away from the conversion unit, feeling the coldness of metal beings pressed all around them, hollow without emotion. His voice cracked as he replied, “I can’t watch anymore.”  


Those laser probes masking as the Doctor’s eyes studied him again, and he felt as though every secret he’d ever held was assessed and discarded. He trembled slightly when the Doctor released him. That gaze wasn’t as dark; wasn’t as angry as it had just been. What had the Doctor seen? He didn’t have to wait long to find out.  


“Today, Ianto Jones, you nearly lost someone you care deeply about. So did I. I don’t ever want that to happen again. I can’t stay to monitor your planet’s progress, but I trust you to.”  


Ianto blinked and squeaked out an undignified, “Me?”  


He could barely keep up with the Doctor’s fast-paced explanation of how the 22nd century was the beginning of humanity’s realization of psychic potential and _he_ was naturally inclined which was why and how he knew to find the Doctor and tell him about the fissure. His head spun as the Doctor grew solemn and that gaze penetrated his again.  


“You’re more than capable of keeping them in line. Just don’t become a figurehead – keep yourself in a position to affect change. The higher you get in rank, the less freedom you have to make the right choices. You had sense not to interfere with your past; I don’t know of many humans who could have resisted. On some level, you understand cause and effect in regards to nonlinear time. That is invaluable and should make you highly desirable to one of other branches of Torchwood.”  


“No.” The word was out and his head shaking negative before he could even finish processing all that the Doctor was telling him. “I’ve been a virtual prisoner for eight years; you can’t expect me to give up freedom and go back to that excuse for a life.”  


A brow rose above the Doctor’s right eye and Ianto felt as though he’d been chastised for goodly minutes  


“You’re asking me to stay among the vicious people who caused _this_?” he bellowed, extending his arms in a sweeping gesture to take in everything around them.  


The Doctor crossed his arms and shifted his posture, but he may as well have screamed himself hoarse for days, for what Ianto felt under that steady, infinite gaze was _certainty_. He _was_ going to do this. It had already been decided, probably in one of the decades ahead, and to not do it now would cause a paradox that could destroy Time itself. He felt the slump of his shoulders as though the weight of responsibility had already been placed there, and maybe it had. His gaze dropped to the floor signaling his defeat or acceptance; however the Doctor chose to see it.  


=-=-=-=-=-=  


Ianto had opened his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom, with Jack’s sleep-heavy weight pressed against his back. The dream had been real at one time, but it seemed lifetimes ago to him now.  


Somehow, he didn’t doubt that the Doctor knew he would end up at Torchwood Three. Maybe the Doctor had known that Jack was there. Maybe the Doctor had drawn the two of them together, two souls out of their own time, to find comfort in each other. It was a nice thought, but Ianto hadn’t had much faith in fate or whatever the Doctor posited to be.  


He realized his thumb was unconsciously rubbing the back of Jack’s hand. He turned carefully in Jack’s arms to face the still-sleeping man. He and Jack had more than their fair share of secrets. Ianto’s biggest secrets had been revealed tonight, most by his own choosing, and to his surprise, Jack had opened up as well. His blood thrummed to the steady beat of Jack’s heart, the ache of home tempered by the trust Jack placed in him.  


Maybe there was something to this Doctor, after all. As he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jack’s mouth, he made a promise: no more secrets borne of fear. If he had a need for discretion in the future, it would be a choice he made with open eyes, not as a last-ditch, hopeless dead-end.  


His eyes drifted closed, the stray thought that maybe this was how things were supposed to be followed him back to sleep.

The End

 


End file.
